They say the body forgets.
Instead, the cells regenerate every seven years. This contrasts with the way our brains record our lives - a process which my father is explaining while he cooks. He tells me that it can hold almost two million gigabytes of data, which is four billion books or millions of web pages. Somewhere within those numbers, he insists, lives the sum of who we are:
First loves.
Schoolyard triumphs.
Forgotten phone numbers.
His spoon scrapes the base of the pressure cooker. He places a steaming plate of yellow lentils in front of me. I rub my calloused hands together and break off some roti to dip in my soupy dinner. The warmth seeps into the tips of my fingers, travelling downwards to the palms of my hands.
If you look closely at my fingertips, you’ll see a thick crust of white skin where the layers have grown and hardened. Moving further down, my stomach bears a neat constellation of dots, lined up like soldiers on either side of my navel. My arms bear ghostly patches.
Pale ovals where the skin is lighter for no known reason.
***
The doctor rolls a pen between his fingers, his eyes flickering between the computer screen and me. His voice carries the weight of routine and disinterest.
“Nearly 8.4 million people live with type 1 diabetes, sweetheart. In fact, in Australia, almost 13,200 are your age!”
It is a quiet community, marked by invisible routines.
We inject.
We monitor.
We scar.
Skin remembers what we ask it to endure.
***
When I was four, my father would come to school every day during lunch.
He’d bring me two Arnotts Orange Slice Cream biscuits, wrapped in a paper towel. He’d squeeze into a small chair designed for a kindergartener. With practiced hands, he’d prick my index finger, soak the blood onto a test trip and give me a reassuring smile. A familiar pang of anxiety sits at the base of my stomach. It reminds me of the first time they tried to test me.
“Finger pricking is one of the oldest rituals of diabetes, it isn’t very difficult. It just takes a bit of practice.”
I squirmed and sat on my hands.
“Don’t move away from me now. It will only make it hurt more.”
***
At fourteen, I stood in the uniform shop, rocking on my heels. Today was the day.
Middle school students wore the ugly, frumpy and sack shaped tunic. Instead, high schoolers wore the flattering blouse and skirt. I asked for a size 16 in both.
The lady who runs the uniform shop clicked her tongue disapprovingly, handing me a larger size over the top of the changing room door. As she flounced around the store and processed my purchase, she complained about the sizing guidelines at my school.
“A young girl like you is definitely not a size 16.”
When I got home, I ran my fingers over the stretch marks that appeared next to the dots on my stomach.
***
In the fifteen years I have been seeing him, my doctor’s hair has turned from black to grey. His crow’s feet have become more pronounced.
“How old are you now? Almost fifteen! That explains the weight gain. Didn’t you know? Around puberty you begin to build insulin resistance which leads to more weight and what not. I’m sure you will lose it eventually.”
I spent that evening scrolling through my feed, acutely aware of the stomach folds around my torso. A mixture of anger and embarrassment sat in my chest.
A feeling that has never quite gone away.
***
At seventeen, I wore a blue and pink dress to my formal.
The day started early, trooping to my local salon. My hair was painstakingly heated into ringlets. My nails were shaped into pink almonds. Lipstick painted across my lips; powder patted on to my face. I’d bought silver studded high heels to match my dress.
But under the glamor, my sensor sat on my arm like an unwelcome guest. I'd forgotten to move it. All night, I twisted my body in photos, hoping to hide it.
Everyone knew already.
No one would ask.
Surely.
***
I’ve been putting off my transition from the children’s clinic to the adult one. After graduating high school, the hospital staff decided that now is the time.
“I think I will actually miss you sweetheart.”
For the first time, I feel like my doctor is looking at me. His eyes soften with the realisation that it has been almost seventeen years since he first saw me.
I recognise the futility in this moment. I will have diabetes the rest of my life.
***
Now I am nineteen.
As time passes, many things in my life have changed. I decided that I love the colour pink. I grew to enjoy eating avocados and plain milk. After thinking I would never wear Bluetooth headphones, I can’t go anywhere without my trusty pair.
But the funny thing is, after all this time, I have not lost a single scar I have gained. I wonder if I need this physical archive of my disability. After all, diabetes is incurable and unchanging, unlike my personal preference in breakfast foods.
Yet maybe my experience of disability is not tied to my callouses. Despite all popular media bemoaning the Orange Slice biscuit, I still buy a packet after difficult days. I still wear my absurdly high silver studded high heels at every opportunity because they are beautiful.
***
The other day, my father was cooking daal again. The familiar smell of cumin and spices swirled around the kitchen. As always, he was telling me fun facts.
“Do you remember,” I asked, breaking my roti in half, “how upset I would get when you brought a different type of biscuit to school. Not the orange ones?”
He looked up and smiled.
“Of course. You always told me you could taste the towel.”
I laughed.
Disability has carved itself into me like a river etching a path through stone. But instead of marking my skin with permanent scars, it has filled the spaces where fear once lived with memories: sharp, tender and wholly mine.
